In a development that has sent shockwaves through the chattering classes and induced a collective spasm of indignation in the nation's newsrooms, a prominent editor has been denied the most basic of civic privileges: the right to cast a ballot and the ability to flaunt a passport that doesn't look like it's been through a shredder. The editor in question, a man whose byline is as recognisable as the smell of desperation in a failing newsroom, has been stripped of his democratic and travel rights by the Indian authorities. This has prompted a chorus of condemnation from his fellow ink-stained wretches, who have taken to the streets in their finest rumpled blazers, waving placards that read 'Ballots Not Bullets' and 'Passports for Press Freedom'.
The British government, never one to miss an opportunity to lecture others on the virtues of free expression from the comfort of their own morally ambiguous shores, has joined the fray. A spokesperson, no doubt sipping a Darjeeling tea in a Whitehall office, issued a statement expressing 'deep concern' and calling for an immediate reversal of the decision. The irony of a nation that boasts more CCTV cameras than literate citizens lecturing another on civil liberties is not lost on the honourable editor, who is currently holed up in a fortified compound, penning a furious op-ed on a vintage typewriter.
The Indian government, for its part, has dismissed the furore as the work of 'disgruntled elements' and 'foreign interference', a classic two-step diplomatic shuffle that would make a Bollywood choreographer proud. The editor, whose passport is now as useful as a chocolate teapot, has vowed to continue his work from the confines of his own country, a martyr to the cause of press freedom. Meanwhile, the gin supply in the capital has seen a sudden, inexplicable spike in demand.
Coincidence? I think not.
